


kiss the stars with me

by Hari_Aisu



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: :(, Begins Gen eventually gets slashy, Don't piss off the British Government Sherlock, Emotional battery of the John Watson Kind, Gen, I still don't know if that's a warning or just a general specification lol, I want to snuggle you John, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Rape/Non-con References, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Stop being so adorable and sad, srsly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:47:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hari_Aisu/pseuds/Hari_Aisu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had thought that coming back would be the solution to all of their problems. </p><p>Unfortunately he had not taken into account just what dangers lurked after his "death", not just for himself but for John as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. trying to consume myself in this

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, so. This was my first piece in the Sherlock fandom and I have to say... wow. Hopefully I didn't screw up to badly. o.o It's based off a prompt in the Sherlock kink meme. Will link at the end of the story ;)
> 
> This hasn't been Brit-picked so anyone willing to do so for me, I am definitely still accepting all takers lol. I'm editing as I post so if you guys find any errors just let me know. Also not beta-read, oh dear. -.-;

" _On my knees, dim lighted room, thoughts free-flow trying to consume myself in this._

_I'm not faithless, just paranoid of getting lost or that I might lose._

_Ignorance is bliss, cherish it._

_Pretty neighborhoods, you learn too much to hold._

_Believe it not and fight the tears with pretty smiles and lies about the times._

_A year goes by and I can't talk about it._

_The times weren't right_

_And I can't talk about it_."

– 'So I Thought'; Flyleaf

 

* * *

_kiss the stars with me_

part one: trying to consume myself in this

 

* * *

_The constant fear was the first thing to go over the years, hard as it was to believe._

_There was always a niggling part of you that felt the tiniest bit paranoid but John could never describe it as real "fear". Not after going through war and hunger and constant pain for years at a time. Not when he had lived with a self-proclaimed Sociopath who bordered the constant line between Strangely Naïve and Irritatingly Perceptive, depending on what the subject matter was and if feelings were somehow (_ at all _) involved._

_Being afraid wasn't anything new to John Watson and so shedding that fear, that frightening stigma that had at one point almost sent him over the edge until there was almost nothing left of the John Watson anybody used to know, had not been as difficult as it might've been for some, if not all, people to believe._

_The grief, however, refused to fade away as easily._

_Not by a long shot._

 

* * *

The navy blue droopy curtains hung over the shade-less windowpanes, giving the tiny room being inhabited a rather eerie glow. The only source of light was the tiny lamp perched on the therapist's desk, illuminating her dark eyes so that the dark-brown color centered within each orb morphed into two cavernous holes of black.

John's cane leaned awkwardly on his left side. The grooves melded into the plastic for the comfort of his grip were pressing against the inside of his arm but the former soldier did not move an inch.

His eyes were just as dark as Ella's within the dim light, if not darker.

"John, we've discussed Sherlock at length," Ella sat back in her cushioned chair, her hands folded on top of her lap in a pseudo-show of calm. "However we have yet to discuss how all of this has truly affected you. The loss of your closest friend would be considered traumatic even if negate the circumstances you've suffered-"

John scoffed at the stilted drop off, the half-formed statement faltering into more of a breathy question. Ella had never been approving of his dropping of their sessions nor of his so called "adventures" with Sherlock Holmes.

She continued nonetheless. "But the way you've enclosed yourself is not entirely relative to a loss of just a friend, no matter how close the two of you may have been."

"He wasn't just a friend." John cut in with a snarl. "Sherlock was…"

"Was?" Ella leaned forward, eyes widening slightly. The use of the past tense was significant, even after all this time spent on their sessions (times wasted up until this point).

"The missing _best_ friend." The corner of Ella's mouth twitched downward as John's lifted up. "He was the greatest man I ever knew. I'd have given up everything for him."

' _A world without Sherlock Holmes isn't much of a world after all_.'

"This idolization, John, it's not healthy. He was just a man. A great man, perhaps, but a man nonetheless. And what's happened to you because of that man, that can't be ignored."

"Enough." A shrill ringing burst anxiously within the blond doctor's ears as he stood on wobbly legs, his limp perceptible with even that simple motion. "We're done here."

Ella pursed her lips as the man hobbled out of his chair, trembling hand gripping the cane like a lifeline. The younger woman's skirt billowed away from her legs in John's wake.

"Three years later and we are still right where we started John. Every time you walk out that door the problem remains the same and you refuse to acknowledge it. Nothing ever changes and nothing ever will if you continue to act as if it never happened."

The blond-haired doctor halted at the door, his right palm caressing the panel of wood as if leaving was a distant thought.

"What happened to Sherlock Holmes was a tragedy John." Ella looked over her shoulder in one last attempt to make John see her way, even if it was in vain. "What happened to you was an injustice."

The door swung close with a loud slam, the shriek the therapist's receptionist yelped out muffled but still audible through the room's only exit. Folded hands fell off to the side, the façade of tranquility quietly melting into weary resignation, as was the norm after all of John Watson's appointments.

When John got home he stared at the floorboards of his bedroom as if they had something they could impart on him that others could not.

_Everything stays the same._

Instead of a revelation all he received was a migraine and another lost night of sleep for his troubles.

_Nothing ever happens to me anymore._

The hospital issued cane stood next to him, mocking him as it leaned against his bedpost.

_Not since you left._

 

* * *

The breeze billowed around him in a dull roar, ruffling his short blond locks which were now considerably longer than the cropped style John had worn three years back ( _when things still made some kind of sense and John wasn't always afraid_ ). Leaning back against the cool slab of marble brought the doctor back to reality even if it wasn't the reality he truly wanted to be a part of anymore.

There was a reason he kept these trips minimal, clipped and right to the point. A man like John was not meant for longing and regrets-

He wallowed within them until he could no longer breathe and even then, John kept walking forward.

 _Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity._  
  
Small cracks of lines weaved through John's face as the familiar sardonic smirk slithered into place.

"I don't blame you for what happened, Sherlock."

The phrase was repeated each time he visited the solitary headstone, replacing any customary greeting that others generically poured out. John knew his friend had hated repetition in the past but this was something he needed Sherlock to understand (if he even could understand anything anymore, this one thing would be it).

The first time the words were spoken out loud, they were tremulous, soured with insecurities and unfettered grief. Now they were spoken with the stoicism that only time could bring. Three years' worth of cauterization over a wound that hadn't healed quite right…

"I went to go see Ella again last week. I stormed out… again." John twisted his fingers around his cane, the piece of plastic and metal standing upright even as he kept himself on the ground. The amount of grass stains his trousers had accumulated every time he visited didn't even faze him anymore though the itchiness seeping into his legs as a resulting of sitting on grass for too long would irritate him soon enough. "I knew she wanted to talk about it again and I couldn't deal with it. Not when it was so close to-"

John held in his breath, licking his lips out of habit.

"You know. I still can't even talk about it without getting all weepy. Isn't that only reserved for harlequin heroines? Being weepy?" The exhausted streaks slathered around John's eyes deepened. "I don't want to talk about whatever happened after you were gone. It's not relevant to me. I just wish you were here with me again."

"That thing I said, you know, about not… not being dead. I still mean it, Sherlock. If you could just give me one last thing, just come back and stop this." John blinked out the tears gathering at the corner of his eyes, back hunched in a deep arc as his breath stilted into a halt. "Stop this nonsense and just come home."

The cane quivered under John's weight as he hefted himself up off of the ground. Dark blue eyes shuddered close until they were suspiciously dry, if a bit red around the edges. It was as if John had shook his emotions off along with the dirt that had been clinging onto his pants and once he was upright he was not the same man he had been just moments before, on the ground shaking with regret.

Each step away from the headstone was clearly a battle. Luckily John had experience with such conflict; a soldier through and through.

There was only one falter. Before John could reach he paved way leading towards the main entrance he let his cane rest against the uneven cement but did not take another step forward.

"Everything else is irrelevant as long as you're not here and I can't live like this forever."

The moment of pause passed as quickly as it occurred and John kept walking forward as if he had never stopped.

Time was not kind to anyone, even someone as great as Sherlock Holmes.

 

* * *

 

"Sir?"

Mycroft stared at the footage in front of him with an apathy that only a Holmes could pull off, his attention seemingly fleeting even as his straightened back and tightened fists belied otherwise.

"How long does he have left?"

"Not very much longer sir, from what our last intel gathered." Stella glanced at her Blackberry. "He does seem to be hesitating sir…"

"Making sure there are no mistakes to be made." Mycroft crooned. "My little brother has grown strikingly cautious. I suppose some changes are inevitable."

The eldest Holmes brother paused the video footage in front of him, the back of one John Watson holding itself in place.

"Have surveillance keep track of Dr. Watson until my little brother's return Gloria."

"Stella today, sir." The younger woman's typing became increasingly rapid after the command however.

"Right, of course. I need a direct feed from wherever Dr. Watson is at all times to wherever I am at all times. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir."

Mycroft gave his assistant one of his patronizing smiles, bowing his head in thanks. "To be done promptly, thank you."

Stella didn't even look up from the screen of her phone as Mycroft left the room, the glow of the still image of John Watson's back reflecting off of her face.

 

* * *

 

Wisps of hazy curls of smoke dangled translucently through the stale air of the abandoned factory, clear grey eyes following their movements in a self-trained art of distraction. In place of polished dress shoes and pressed pants were scuffed trainers and rough jeans equally designed to set him apart from whom he once was, a ghost of a Consulting Detective molded into a relatively newly-made vigilante.

The abandoned warehouse creaked ominously, the passing shadows elongating with every strobe of light hitting the broken windows depilated by time. Chipped stairs met dirt infested walls and hole-riddled floors, all crumbling from disuse and lack of maintenance. A large moldy desk hid Sherlock from immediate view, curling his legs into his body as the scratchy fabric of his tee-shirt chaffed his chest and slid uncomfortably against his jean-clad thighs.

Sherlock harrumphed as he took another drag from his cigarette and peeked out of the cracked window.

Different sets of cars began to circle the vacant lot – _Just as I expected_ – causing the lights to circle wildly within the small room the weary man encompassed. Running a hand through his now auburn-colored locks, Sherlock didn't even flinch as his fingernails scraped over a still-open wound against the side of his head. The bullet had barely grazed him but that hadn't stopped the hurt.

Or the bullet now imbedded within the other man's skull for that matter.

_Corpse on the right side.Blood coagulating against his temple and upper right arm. Rigor mortis should be setting in. Stiffening fingers, stiffening muscles, stiffening-_

_Lights coming in from the left side. Six strobes-_

_Three cars._

_Left side._

_Only one corridor leading to the stairway downstairs._

_Windows broken._

_Wall crumbling on the left side, right side suffering from major water stains and scorch marks, possible debilitation due to fire._

The sound of brakes screeching to a halt filtered into the large office Sherlock was huddled within.

The gun strapped on his hip weighed heavily on his side. Burnt ashes clung to the detective's fingers as the stub died within his two-fingered grip and met the ground in a flurry of spins. Azure-colored eyes sharpened back to health as the sounds of heavy foot-falls echoed off the warehouse cement-encrusted floors.

All deductions came to an abrupt halt. The tall, dark figure stood awkwardly at the gaping doorway, hinges torn away from one too many forceful entries and exits. Blue-tinted lips trembled under a well-groomed mustache, eyes carefully scanning the apparently unoccupied area.

_Metal. Metal against my itching for just .cigarette. I need one. I always need another one. John would have my head if-_

_It's time to move._

_Time._

_He's checking his watch._

_Meeting with who?_

_Not meeting._

_Waiting.For. What?_

_Of course._

_Must be ready._

More footsteps followed the previously set, some lighter than the original echoes, unknowingly counting one by one each man creeping within his _den_.

His last thought was always one name which was promptly deleted not even seconds after.

_I am so close…_

Sherlock's mind stuttered into overdrive, legs unfolding in one swift moment. Hand already swinging to his right side-

_John._

 

* * *

 

The tiny flat John now inhabited didn't exude any of the lived-in hominess or chaotic disorganization that 221b had exhibited. The preoccupied doctor seemed to always be on the go, rarely staying within the flat during the day to do more than wash, change and, if he were feeling a bit puckish, eat a meal or two, so it hardly made sense for John to ever unpack his things. John was also always taking the night shifts at his new position at the A&E, a job he managed to procure once the clinic couldn't secure him anymore hours (or excitement for that matter) which made the thought of buying new sheets or changing them for that matter, a rather ridiculous idea.

Tonight was one of those unusual nights where John didn't have a shift or a date (the doctor was open to _anybody_ at this point) to distract him from home. There was no excuse to employ or justification as to why he _couldn't_ be by himself.

And, a normal occurrence on these oh-so-abnormal nights, he couldn't bring himself to sleep through it at all. The light next to John's bed cast a surreal shadow across his rumpled visage as he lay sprawled on his bed with a small frown on his face

Dreams had a way of turning on you at the slightest change of frame of mind and the steely doctor was no different. At first it was the consecutive night terrors of a battle-field he longed for that kept him wide awake until those melted away into memories of a man he had never thought he would have to live without; fantasies which brokered his perception of what _was_ real and what _wasn't_.

Now, however, they were nightmares of a different elk altogether, all filled with the sort of lurid reminiscence that was best forgotten.

John bit his lip as he lifted his left hand.

Steady.

John eyelids flickered for a moment, lowering his appendage back onto his lap.

The light stayed on for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

John felt his hand tense around his cane as he limped out his office, the adrenaline of the shift prior fleeting as always. The itchy sensation of being watched flaked at his skin until all John wished to do was scratch at his arms until they bled. It had been a long time since he had felt such a discomfort.

Almost immediately the veteran knew what it meant.

' _Mycroft.'_

Dark cerulean eyes scanned the hallways for any alterations and wasn't the least bit surprised to find none to the obvious eye.

John wasn't a Holmes. He couldn't pick out every little nuance about a person within a single glance, manipulate governments for the benefit of all or delve himself into mind palaces whenever he felt like. John was stable and calm whilst a Holmes was neurotic and disordered, even if it was only the state of his mind.

He was a soldier within a war zone even when the scenery changed from desert plains to alleys filled with granite and bullets and bombs transformed into mind-games and veiled insults. The blond doctor's instincts were still golden even after all of these years.

The urge to throw his cane onto the ground and run into confrontation was strong but John resisted.

Mycroft Holmes wasn't like his brother. Sherlock lived, breathed and drank in the chaos of unpredictability, especially when applied to one John Watson with whom he reveled in the sureness of his reliance mingled in with his always impulsive actions that spoke louder than his words. Mycroft, however, did not _know_ what being unpredictable meant.

The One Man Government ( _as John and Sherlock had referred to him as after that first night together, snickering like children with their hands covertly reaching for the cookie jar_ ) played a constant game of chess. Every move was pre-planned, leaving little for error.

Though when it did happen ( _don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it_ ) it was usually monstrous. Something disastrous that someone even as powerful as Mycroft could not avoid.

 

* * *

 

"Hello John."

The cane was thrown onto the floor, smoldering dark eyes furrowed in a way that screamed danger.

"I see your physical therapy has been doing you wonders." Mycroft placidly commented, smiling down at the cup of tea perched on his lap. John knew for a fact that the cup had not been within his cupboard and as he had not had a chance to go for groceries, that was most certainly not his tea either.

Surprised John was not.

"I suppose I don't have to tell you to make yourself at home then." John swiftly made his way to the other chair within the tiny sitting room, the limp barely noticeable at this point. "Nor do I have to worry about my relative safety any time soon…"

"Oh _John_ ," There went that ridiculous slimy smirk again the former soldier thought to himself "you needn't ever worry about your own safety. You are practically family to me in every way."

"Am I?" Leaning forward on his haunches, John gave his own scathing smile. "I don't recall having any prior visits in the last three years."

"There have been visitations." Mycroft helpfully informed the doctor. The ' _but you needn't know about **that**_ ' was left deliberately unsaid. "How have you been John?"

"You know how I've been."

"But it is always kinder to ask, yes? I do know my social norms, doctor, at least better than my brother did."

John took in a deep breath. It wasn't difficult to remember just how irritating this man could be, not when he could drive a man like _Sherlock_ batty. "Why have you brought your… _visitations_ to my attention now? Today it was so obvious that I'm pretty sure you gave half my patients an actual cause for anxiety."

The eldest Holmes once again smiled pleasantly. "I simply wished to remind you that I was still around John."

' _And I'm still watching._ '

'Bloody Hell…'

"I'm not-!"

"What John?"

Both men stared at each other, eyes speaking volumes.

"I'm not your responsibility Mycroft. You don't have to use me as some sort of replacement."

"I can assure you that a replacement you will never be," the older man's face twitched at the thought, obviously re-living years of tumultuous affection within seconds "but a friend you have never stop being, John."

"Do I have to search the flat for bugs or is it a moot point?" John finally relented. The thought of being watched wasn't as uncomfortable as it should have been and both men knew that John wasn't nearly as agitated at the prospect as he pretended to be.

Mycroft took another sip of his tea, his eyes squinting in the same way Sherlock's used to whenever he faked a smile for his clients.

John didn't know how to feel when his only reaction was to gradually smile right back.

 

* * *

_Last one for now._

Grey eyes kept their sights locked on the door just across the street from them. The cigarette dangling from the thin, practically skeletal, fingers shook to the rhythm of his incessant tapping, unable to stop himself from partaking in this small indulgence.

_Cold turkey, we've already talked about this._

The tattered-looking rags felt heavier than they should have as the familiar sleek car pulled up in front of 221b, the tiny beams of light within the alley closing in on the homeless-looking man. Cut cheekbones bled red underneath the milky-white skin being exposed to the harsh winds of winter weather, dimples forming underneath as the muscles around the hobo's mouth. A good amount of sloshy snow slurped at the broken soles of his shoes once the manic energy surrounding the bright-eyed man finally exuded itself in physical form and the stub of a fag met the ground in a silent plop.

Sherlock grinned as he stepped on the dregs of his last cigarette, his lengthy dark curls hanging over his new scars in a matted mess, newly stripped of its last bright color.

Soon he would be able to make himself known. Soon he would get to see the one person who made him feel whole again.

_I'd be lost without my blogger._

_I will burn the **heart** out of you._

_John?_

_Everyone._

_This is my note._

_Sherlock-!_

Watching Mycroft shove himself within the car as John hung at the doorway, Sherlock felt his over-exuberance thrum against his weary bones.

'Finally…' Sherlock thought to himself as he stared at the closed door, the flat a different number and street but the person living within it the same one he had left behind, 'I'm home.'

 

 


	2. stupid calls returning us to life

* * *

 

" _All these twisted thoughts free-flow to everlasting memories; show soul._  


_Kiss the stars with me and dread the wait for stupid calls returning us to life._

_We say to those who are in love it can't be true 'cause we're too young_

_And I know that's true because so long I was so in love with you…_

_So I Thought._

_A year goes by and I can't talk about it_."

-'So I Thought'; Flyleaf

* * *

_kiss the stars with me_

part two: stupid calls returning us to life

* * *

The next day began in a decidedly forgettable manner in John's mind.

He drank his morning tea in the same way as the previous day and got dressed in the same way as the previous day. The whole routine was practiced to a downright science, quite literally done without much thought at all.

Pulling on the same coat and the same pair of shoes, John did not think that this day of all days would be much different than all the rest.

Nothing ever happened to him anymore.

* * *

"John."

Ella leaned forward as she spoke the name. Her legs were crossed in the same manner as last week, hands huddled over her lap in silent affirmation that this session would probably yield the same results as the last.

John continued to stay silent.

"Every week we meet without fail. You come here, you say nothing unless it has to do with Sherlock and then you storm out when I attempt to speak about the real issue at hand."

The silence on John's part quivered after a small huff of air but no words escaped his lips.

"You come here for two reasons John. One of them is undoubtedly Sherlock Holmes. The other…"

The hopeful woman glanced at John, obviously wishing for him to continue for her.

The stoic doctor didn't even flinch as he continued to say absolutely nothing.

"John I can't help you if you refuse to acknowledge the problem."

The muscles in John's leg tensed but nothing else alluded to his discomfort. Ella glanced at the leg in question and backtracked in an effort to get her patient to say _something_.

"Your limp. It's almost completely healed. You don't even really need to carry the cane around anymore yet you still do. Why?"

His left hand slowly began to tremble.

"What are you, John? What do you see yourself as?" John's face grew pale as Ella continued, every part of him ready to spring out of his seat and march out of the door. "Because without Sherlock's death, without the grief or self-sabotage and constant need to reaffirm weakness, all I see is a survivor. And once you realize just how much you are capable of, how strong you truly are even without Sherlock, I know you will be able to pick up your life right where you left off and _live_ again."

John said nothing still, his posture crumbling into a slouch at the words but his mouth still zipped closed.

He knew where this line of talk would lead to and soon enough he would get so frustrated that he would stomp out of the office and fall into his flat in a rage that would end in either him accidentally hurting himself or going to bed depressed, not even sure why he was mad anymore.

John wasn't really angry, but he couldn't say what it was he was feeling, not really.

Just like every other Wednesday, truth be told.

* * *

John had a handful of instances within his lifetime that had invariably changed his perception on what, exactly, his role in said life would be.

Prior to medical school he had been a wayward child, neither as calm nor steady as he would eventually become after living the life of a soldier. John had been an avid gambler, drinking himself into a stupor every weekend _(something Harry liked to remind him every time she was pissed out of her mind and reminisced about the olden days_ ) and bartering out all of the money from his pockets in exchange for vices he couldn't control.

It had not been a choice he had made, funnily enough, that had changed everything for him.

His father had been diagnosed with Liver Cancer a week before he had come home for break. John had had to watch his mother cry hysterically and his father scream drunkenly for only ten minutes before vowing he would never live this life nor repeat the same mistakes.

Harry, however, did not have the same inclination.

That had been the beginning of John's role as the Protector, trying to steer his sister away from the death of his father and what that meant for them. From trying to protect her from the isolation of their mother, who used Harry's coming out as an excuse to release all the anger that their father had left her with.

Once Harry changed her number and moved without telling John, he knew he had ultimately failed in that endeavor and finally quit trying.

The second instance had been his choice to go into war.

John had not thought about military service until he was 26 and already practicing as a doctor. At first he had thought it all mad, not wanting to bloody his hands with something he did not have anything to do with and kept himself busy with his patients.

Once again it was not a choice on his own part that caused the change but the choice of one lone soldier who had come in with a heavy fever and only three limbs.

John had done his best to treat the young man, even speaking to him on a personal level. He knew he had gone beyond his doctor's duties but there had been something in the young man's face that had spoken of so much pride and hardship.

" _You are certainly a fighter._ " John remembered saying to the young man with green eyes far too old for his freckled face.

" _Comes with being a soldier really._ "

In that moment John had realized that that one sentence held more than just mild humor.

This was a way of _life_.

And all John could think was _I could do this too_.

Then he was shot and told his services were no longer needed and his spiral downward had started all over again.

Except it had not taken very long for his sense of purpose to be filled, and Sherlock Holmes had given it to him with all the grace of a man-child in his early thirties still trying to find his own way through the world.

And when Sherlock fell, ( _not fell, jumped remember?_ ) he had taken a part of John that couldn't be resuscitated back to life.

Going back to their flat…

_No._

And telling Mrs. Hudson the news…

_Stop it._

Watching her breakdown…

_Why are you doing this?_

And bringing her down to her own flat…

_Oh God._

Needing a minute to just _breathe_ …

_Sherlock…_

He lost himself when Sherlock jumped.

_I can't…_

John had nothing left to protect that was actually worth protecting and he had no illusions otherwise.

* * *

The clicking of his cane bopping against the sidewalk with each step John took calmed him as he got out of the cab and tried valiantly not to think about his session with Ella. He counted today as a victory, not leaving until the very end of the session and managing to keep his outburst to a bare minimum.

The side of John's mouth ticked however as he touched the door leading up to his flat.

It was unlocked.

Instead of pulling out his mobile phone and dialing the police, John felt his lips pull upwards in a facsmile of a smirk.

_Could be dangerous._

Oh, his fatal error indeed.

The quirk of his mouth slipped off once the door was open and the sound of a violin being played thrummed through the hallway. John glanced at his land-lord's door, realizing quite quickly that he was alone with whoever was playing, and whoever was playing sounded a lot _like_ -

John pulled his cane up against his shoulder in a defensive manner, the music slowly hitting a crescendo just as his foot made the last step. Steady hands carefully turned the doorknob once the wiry strands of notes quieted down seconds later until the door swung open and dark-blue eyes sharpened in a way that only another military man could imitate.

There was no one present in the kitchen from where he could see nor was anyone visibly available at first glance. John's bedroom however was wide open.

Walking towards the enchanting music, John braced himself. Before entering the room, he thought of every single day he had spent without his dearest friend, how much he had missed him and begged him to be still be here, to still be alive.

How much of himself had died along with Sherlock that fateful day and how much he would never get back.

John _grasped_ that feeling and kept a hold of it as he walked into his bedroom.

_You're just imagining it._

_No._

_Don't think._

_About._

_It._

Sherlock smiled as he halted his playing and glanced up at his friend from the corner of his eye, lounging lackadaisically on said man's bed.

"Hello John."

And that was the last thing John remembered before his cane slipped out of his hands and everything turned black.

* * *

John awoke what felt like days later with a migraine pounding angrily against the left side of his head and eyes burning with unshed tears temporarily held back by closed lids. Instead of opening his eyes John let his mind muddle through what it _knew_ , the continuous days he had woken buoyed with the weight of his loss, trapping him in his purgatory like an anchor on dry land. John felt the days, months, years hang around him until it fogged his perception in a haze of disappointment-

Disappointment in himself, his abilities to "protect" ( _both himself and his supposed loved ones_ ), his best friend whom he had felt so much guilt towards; why hadn't he seen it coming, why hadn't he had done more for him, if he had been just a bit more clever, he could have prevented it all from happening, if only he could be that much more _amazing_ like Sher-

Now though, John wasn't quite sure how he was supposed to feel.

Wait.

That was wrong.

He knew how he was supposed to feel.

He just couldn't afford himself to actually _feel_ it.

"I know you're awake, John."

The smooth baritone slid musically into the partially comatose man's ears like a long-lost melody they could not do without. The emotionally battered doctor shed the torrent of sensations threatening to drown him and clung ostentatiously to the pure _joy_ thrumming with every beat of his heart.

And when John opened his eyes and stared at the gangly figure in front of him he felt like everything could finally be _right_ again.

Except it wasn't.

And John wasn't sure if they ever could be.

* * *

The overly rambunctious detective had felt a fleeting moment of panic at the sight of his friend dropping to the ground not three seconds after looking straight at him but suppressed the urge to check the overly-taxed man's vitals over and over again until it became clear that John was _fine_ ( _fine was such an imperative word now and not even close to meaning what it used to in Sherlock's calibrated library of words_ ) and moved the tiny doctor into the sitting room without a second thought.

Sherlock then spent the time waiting for John to awaken staring at him, cataloguing every change just as meticulously as he kept track of what had stayed the same. It was obvious that the past three years had not been particularly kind to John, negating the familiar stance John had adopted before the inelegant fall ( _Sherlock would not be able to think of that word objectively ever again, he must find a way to recalibrate it properly within his hard drive…_ ) and the increase of wrinkles and return of his limp were blatant in that regard.

But those years, they had not been exactly easy on the Consulting Detective either and the sooner John realized this the sooner they could get back to where they were and return back to the most important thing; the work.

The grey-eyed former vagrant refused to believe their relationship could not be salvaged, something Mycroft had repeated excessively in the past to the point where Sherlock had debated just how badly his _dear_ brother's help was really needed.

Mycroft, unfortunately, had all the connections Sherlock needed to end Moriarty's syndicate once and for all and as much as he hated to admit it, he could not afford to waste time being petty.

For John, Sherlock would concede to Mycroft's interfering tendencies and bite his tongue.

For John, Sherlock would do whatever it took to make things safe again, or at least as safe as two men as adrenaline-addicted as they were could manage.

That was the point of all this wasn't it? Sherlock had sacrificed it all for his friend and he would continue to do so, all in a bid for his physical and mental safety.

So once those warm cerulean blue eyes opened and focused on the man at hand Sherlock could not contain himself, automatically standing up and flittering about in some strange dance of celebration.

"You have questions." Sherlock excitedly informed the bleary-eyed doctor awkwardly reclined on the couch.

"And you have answers." John returned stone-faced. Little by little every part of the former soldier's body stiffened, obviously rejecting the idea that _Sherlock was here_ and _is this a dream_ in equal instances. "Are you a hallucination by any chance?"

"Oh John," Sherlock huffed out irritably "if I _were_ a hallucination _how_ , may I ask, would you have gotten to the sofa after your… delicate collapse? Honestly I know you're in shock but use your brain for once!"

"Sherlock?"

"Yes John?"

When Sherlock hit the floor with a thud and felt the blood gush from the side of his mouth like a well, he wondered when John would ever stop surprising him.

John smirked as Sherlock held his jaw in obvious pain, right hand aching from the brute contact.

That, he had decided, had felt much better than it really should have.

"I suppose I should have expected that," Sherlock garbled as he rubbed his cheek. "Only you could go from shock to physical brutality in such a rush John."

"I missed you too, Sherlock." John sweetly countered, the two men grinning despite the tension still walled between them. The older man had honestly had no intention of hitting his former flat mate but after the snarky remark his body had gone on autopilot, obviously feeding off of the resentment still harbored beneath the warmth and excitement John was desperately holding onto. "Now would be a good time to explain yes?"

Sherlock nodded vacantly as he sat down on sofa John had just inhabited, eyeing the doctor in a way that suggested that the seat next to him was to be filled immediately. Though the idea of being so close to the detective made a small part of him to cringe, John refused to fall into newly acquired habits with his best friend, his _still alive and completely whole_ best friend who saw everything and said more now present in front of him.

John knew he would have to find a way to hide this new side of himself from Sherlock but he also knew that it wouldn't be long before his best friend figured everything out in a blaze of deductions and genius. John, without realizing it, wore his heart on his sleeve and Sherlock, who usually could not understand human behavior without having John relay it to him in a simple manner that even he could understand, read him better than any crime scene. The doctor would make a mistake and the detective would be there to piece it all together.

John just had to be ready for it when it all fell apart again.

* * *

It felt like hours passed as the two men sat next to each other, the sound of silence blanketing over them saying more than simple words could say.

Eventually however that wasn't enough to convey all the things that _needed_ to be said so Sherlock, as always, took the plunge and began his sordid tale from the moment Moriarty had come into their flat to the… finale so to speak, before Sherlock's indefinite hiatus.

"So…" John blinked as he absorbed all of the information he could, "Snipers?"

"Yes."

"And Moriarty threatened to-"

"If I were to save you along with Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson I had to kill myself. I obviously wasn't nearly as suicidal as Moriarty kept alluding he himself was, so having had an inkling of where it was the mad man's plans were leading me to, I had a contingency plan set in place so that if I could not stop him by regular means I could at least hold the upper hand in this way. I had not expected him to _actually_ kill himself, mind you, but I knew that if he were willing to end his own life that he had planned ahead in order to make sure that I would do the same. There was no way to know if you or any of the others were safe John. I had to end Moriarty's legacy once and for all."

"Then… you're done with all of this nonsense?"

"Ah… just… about."

"Sherlock." John's voiced became deathly serious very quickly. "Who's left?"

"Just one. His very best, in fact." Sherlock's newfound smirk grew obscenely, a tinge of morbidity hanging off every word. "The sniper he had on you could only be described as the best of the best. It would seem that Moriarty would only trust his most lucrative of pets to take care of the one person he felt would destroy me. After all, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had some sort of chance of living were the assassins instructed to do Moriarty's bidding if you think about it. You however were special. You would have no chance."

"The sniper… on me…" John felt his mind fog as he thought of all that was relayed to him, one day in particular forcing its way to the forefront of John's memories with a viciousness that tore him apart in ways Sherlock could never understand. His head began to ache at the temples, a sign which had always lead John to trust that bad news was over the horizon. "What was his name?"

"Moran." Sherlock's voice grated heatedly against the silence of the room. "Sebastian Moran."

John felt his stomach roil at the name, the _memory_ of that _name_ , the acrid taste of vomit rising up his throat and choking him in a flash.

"John," the concerned look on Sherlock's face was more than John could bear, his left hand shaking, his breath coming out in halts, his heart, palpitating, it was beating _so fast_ -

"John, calm down!"

This was the mistake.

He couldn't afford to make it now.

He could do this right now.

But his _heart_ -

It wouldn't stop ringing within his ears, and screams he thought to have extinguished over the years echoed within his ears, hoarse and bloody, filled with rage and terror.

John _was **horrified**_.

* * *

_don't think about it don't think about it don't think about it_

* * *

"John?" Sherlock's face became clear through the haze of mania clinging to the edges of John's vision; an anchor to his momentarily madness. In three years, John had not once allowed himself to feel the fear that had consumed him within what he called _the night_. And just hearing the name-

An echo of fright stirred up within the pit of the doctor's stomach.

"John, are you alright?" Sherlock's voice teetered into a tenuous lilt that reminded the shaken man that his breakdown wouldn't just affect him. For all that the Consulting Detective spoke of 'divorcing himself from his feelings', he did have them and John could pull at them without even realizing it most days.

' _I'm ok_.' John remembered telling Harry and Ella and Sarah and Greg and Mrs. Hudson-

"I'm sorry." John told Sherlock instead, his voice hoarse and eyes still glistening with unshed tears. "I'm so sorry I couldn't-"

Sherlock cut the man off with an embrace, awkwardly arranging his limbs around his blogger with all the impulsivity that rattled through a man as differently able as Sherlock was.

"It wasn't your fault John."

John froze.

Did…

' _Has he figured it out already?_ '

"You couldn't predict that Moriarty would do what he did." Full lips grimaced against the tufts of graying blondish hair pressed against them. "He knew exactly how to play all of us, me most especially. I let my hand show early on of course… the three of you were in constant danger even before that night at the pool."

John felt his hand shake as he attempted to pull away from the hold, relieved he had not been found out but anxious to _not be_ **touched**.

Sherlock, however, refused to let go.

"I would do it all over again to keep you safe. Even if you decide to never speak to me again and  not come back to Baker Street with me, even if I could never have a cup of tea with you or solve another case without hearing you cry out brilliant in the background or sit down with you and simply _be_. You're my…" The timid baritone grew quieter and quieter as the embrace grew all the more stifling, John wanting to support his friend but wanting more to get his _space_ back. "I kept lying to myself about what you meant to me. I realized that when we were speaking on that phone… when I left you my note. I do have friends. What's more, I have a _best_ friend and I would do so much to keep him alive and well. That day proved it didn't it? John?"

The older man finally managed to slip out of Sherlock's quivering grip, giving himself the distance he needed to think without wanting to push his friend off of his person. Staring up at the bluish-grey eyes that had never seemed too exude anything but aloofness, John bit his lip and welcomed the genuine anxiety pouring from his companion in waves. This was not Sherlock shamming in any way. The great oaf of a man didn't do things by halves and John knew that his friend's confession was not something said without at least a morsel of some sort of veracity; a stymied truth only seen through Sherlock's eyes.

"I need to go lie down, Sherlock." John carefully positioned himself so that Sherlock could not grab him again. Those long spindly hands were already twitching towards him and John didn't think he could take another moment of being caged against the Consulting Detective's limbs. "I can't tell you what I think because I don't… know."

He had never seen Sherlock look so lost.

_John knew the feeling._

"May I… stay for tonight?"

John smiled, the edges of his lips crinkling in a smile that had nearly disappeared in the past three years still sitting between them, the elephant within the room.

"When did I say you had to leave?"

* * *

Once John made it into his bedroom, he barely made it to the bed before hissing out in pain, the cold wood of the floor doing no kindness for his leg.

Sherlock had made no comment about his leg but John knew that he knew.

Knew it wasn't psychosomatic this time.

And his best friend _would_ have questions for him too.

John closed his eyes and concentrated on the fact that his miracle had come.

Even if everything else didn't seem quite so right.

* * *

_What happened to him?_

_-SH_

_I shall see you tomorrow Sherlock. Do give the good doctor some space in the meantime yes?_

_-MH_

_He's had enough space._

_-SH_

_Then he shall have to have a little more. Do listen to me for once Sherlock, I hate having to repeat myself._

_-MH_

* * *

Sherlock threw his phone on the sofa and paced the entirety of John's sitting room until the sounds of John settling into bed echoed from his room. He hated this distance.

Worse was that he had created it.

And someone, some _thing_ , had helped nurture it.

Sherlock just had to figure out what that was and destroy it in its tracks.


	3. remember you, remember me

" _Chorus romance says goodnight._

_Close your eyes and I'll close mine._

_Remember you, remember me-_

_Hurt the first, the last, between._

_Chorus romance says goodnight._

_Close your eyes and I'll close mine._

_Remember you, remember me_

_Hurt the first, the last, between._ "

-'So I Thought'; Flyleaf

* * *

_kiss the stars with me_

part three: remember you, remember me

* * *

_The nightmares that haunted him after that night had not abated during the three years John had carried on alone._

_What were once memories of a burned battlefield and loud explosions were replaced with dark edges of blurred out images, paper-cut men with grim Cheshire-Cat grins and a pair of eyes the size of blocks of granite, broad shoulders and dirty hands leaning over his prone figure which thrummed with pain._

_John never awoke with a gasp of fright or a sigh of relief. Only with a certainty that they would come again and again.  
_

_The worse part of these dreams though, the absolutely most dreadful thing, were that they were not really dreams at all and nothing John could do could make them go away as easily as Sherlock had._

* * *

When John first got up, he thought the day would start as any other day would.

He'd gather his clothing and raid the bathroom for an hour or so before drinking the same brand of tea he did every other morning, readying himself for another dreadful day filled with the same old thing.

One step out of his bedroom and John was met with a face full of Sherlock Holmes standing just millimeters away from his person, changing that perception _very_ quickly.

The doctor felt the smile curl around his lips before he could even think of conjuring it.

It was no ordinary morning after all.

"You'll be fine then?"

John had been nervously hovering around Sherlock since he had woken up this morning, though Sherlock noted in the back of his mind that his aversion to touch still stayed very much the same.

And Sherlock had tried to touch him as if no time had passed at all. It was ingrained in his being to be able to steer John in whatever direction he was going or pull and push him away from the Consulting Detective's person at a moment's notice. John, however, managed to out maneuver Sherlock every single time and his irritation at each attempt was growing more and more palpable at the fact.

The twitchy doctor nodded as his friend snorted, contorted precariously on the chair that had formerly been next to the table and was now perched next to his desk, which held John's now open and hacked-into-it computer.

At least some things don't change.

"I'll be home by 3:00 o'clock. I actually have a double shift today but I'm sure one of the other doctors wouldn't mind covering for me tonight. I've accumulated a lot of spent time in that hospital you know?"

"So I've heard," Sherlock muttered as he scrolled down the laptop screen and frowned. "I can't imagine how bored you must've been without me around to give you a distraction from all of the tedium regular London life has to offer."

"Sherlock."

The quiet staleness laced within his name caused the former recluse to glance up at his best friend. Sherlock kept his gaze steady the moment the twisted grimace on John's face became reminiscent to one the detective hadn't seen in years. Literally.

"Bit not good John?"

Hazy blue eyes narrowed as three long years sat between what they used to be and what the two men were now. A broken pair that needed more than just a bit of repair.

Sherlock knew now that this wouldn't be a simple case. It would certainly be interesting, though, and Sherlock always took the interesting ones.

"Beyond just a _bit_ Sherlock."

"John…?"

"We'll talk later." There was he resigned expression John used to always employ whenever Sherlock overstepped some sort of social aspect that the gangly man ignored for one reason or another, mostly because he honestly didn't care. But those expressive eyes didn't sparkle with the underlying mirth or the subtle agitation that lingered even as thin lips pursed into straight white lines and nostrils flared extravagantly.

"If you say so." Sherlock softly replied as the door closed behind the stoic doctor's retreating back. The phone next to him chirped cheerily but the dark-haired investigator did not immediately spring to attention as was his usual reaction.

It took five minutes for Sherlock to will the care to read the message and another three to write a response.

Mycroft could wrangle the nerve to sound smug via text message with barely the use of a couple of words, let alone a whole sentence. Condescension was nothing new to the Holmes brothers but when used against each other it became especially irritating as Sherlock's immaturity mixed with Mycroft's unending supply of prissiness only served to grate on the other's last nerve without even a word spoken between them.

For John, though.

Sherlock had already sacrificed his life for the man.

What more did he really have to lose?

* * *

_I gather the good doctor has left already. Shall he be making it to first and second shift today?_

_-MH_

_John shall be home at 3._

_-SH_

_Of course he will. That is why I've scheduled you in for 11. You're welcome little brother._

_-MH_

_Piss off Mycroft._

_-SH_

* * *

Sherlock brought his hands under his chin and stared at the phone on his lap.

All of the visual and audio clues did not add up.

' _Not enough data. Does not compute. Not all of the necessary components are available. Need more data on the problem at hand. Relevant, what is relevant? John? Why John?_ '

The pieces didn't want to connect the way they should have in his head and the only person he could rely on to do the brainwork in this case was the one person he really did not want to confide in at the moment. But John would not speak to him… What was John so afraid of him for?

His older brother had a lot of explaining to do.

"Hello, Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

"Hm, lovely little flat isn't it?" The dark umbrella swung to and fro against Mycroft's lengthy legs, clothed in their perfectly tailored trousers. "I helped him acquire it you know. Couldn't manage to ever get him back into Baker Street but I always made sure the option was available to him."

"John wouldn't have approved even if he hadn't felt responsible for my death. You know this."

"How well you think you know him." Mycroft gave his brother the most simpering smile the younger man had ever seen, and that was a record for the older Holmes. "You may have known well the John Watson of three years ago but make no mistake Sherlock, today's John is a different man; unrecognizable to the sturdy soldier who had thirsted for the battlefield when you two first met. Just as war changed him your death did its fair deal of damage, and this change did not come without certain… _consequences_."

"We have spoken to each other four times since I've been gone and not once did you speak of anything happening to him."

"You never asked."

"It shouldn't have had to have been implied!"

"Be careful, brother of mine. Your temper is showing." The government official (Or should we just say The Government?) sat down opposite his temperamental sibling with all the grace of a royal settling down for a cup of tea. "Not once did you ask me how John was doing nor did you ever imply that you wished to know. Pretending that neither of us don't know why that is, is tiresome and a rather waste of a conversation don't you think little brother?"

"No, it is not worth the words to uphold some charade we both know would be some caricature of past arguments. This is about the man you left behind…" Mycroft paused as Sherlock's face darkened considerably, his sharp features gaining the feral silhouette that had blanketed the detective these last three years without his conscience there to remind him of the amorality behind the supposed sociopath's actions. His Heart had been shattered and though Sherlock may not have directly known, he was feeling those repercussions quite thoroughly now. "However many pretty ways you wish to sugar coat the reality Sherlock, that is what you did. It may have saved his life at the moment but you had plenty of time in between then and now to rectify his state of being. You chose to live without him just as easily as you chose to forget what bond it was the both of you shared, making it easier for you to keep going without having to wonder what poor John Watson was doing. What did you imagine would happen, dear brother? A white picket fence, small dog, beautiful wife and the beginning of a Watson brood? Would that have been your preference having had done everything you have done to return to him happy without you?"

"We both know it would have _killed_ you to see such a travesty. You'd have spirited him away the first chance you could get and forcibly reminded him why you are so vital to him. You would have sucked the life he had fought for while you were off gallivanting in your adventures without him and destroyed his existence a second time all for the sheer need of wanting him all to yourself."

Mycroft stared at the expressionless face before him, knowing for all that Sherlock wanted to hurt him he could not refute his logic, and _that_ made all the difference.

"I had wished he would have found himself a new life after you. Especially after playing the part that I did. It would have done you some good to have something out of your reach for once, spoiled that you are. But I know you suffered in your own way, in those tiny minute instances where you couldn't suppress that need anymore and you missed him, all in your own way. But you did not see what I saw and you did not feel the guilt that I felt." The hand around the handle of the umbrella tightened until each digit was blinding white and the knuckles circled around the cylinder of wood cracked under the pressure. "John cared for you so much. He still does, you saw it when you returned. He would have given up anything and everything to have had you by his side again. That is love Sherlock. What John has given you is the purest form of affection I have ever seen one person give another. And when you played him how you did with Moriarty as your constant excuse, it became tainted. Not with hatred towards you but with a distinct self-loathing that I don't think even the most dutiful of emotional masochists could master."

"John put himself at a standstill when you… departed from us." Mycroft threw the word out distastefully, the mere thought of it obviously erupting a bitter taste within his mouth. "In doing so he managed to gather himself in a situation he refused to escape from because he believed it was his repentance in some twisted fashion. You were his breaking point Sherlock, make no mistake about it. But what happened to John after that was what eviscerated whatever was left."

"You say all this but I still don't…" Sherlock's steepled fingers stretched against his chin and neck, back arching in a bow as he leaned forward in a confused whirlwind of thought. "It doesn't make sense. It's JOHN."

"You see, but you do not observe." The older gentleman spoke quietly. "Your emotions are blocking what you would think was obvious in others. Take John's name out of the equation Sherlock. Put a pedestrian in his place and what does the evidence tell you."

"Not John." The Consulting Detective murmured to himself. "He wouldn't. He's a good man who wouldn't do this to himself. He has more sense than me, than you, than just about anyone."

"What, put himself above self-flagellation?" Blue eyes squinted with minor annoyance at the denial the younger man seemed to cling to with every fiber of his being. "John has always been remarkable in his own way. You are brilliant Sherlock where he is steady. What would make you think he could not find a way to obliterate himself that wouldn't require his own hand?"

"I destroyed him." Sherlock mournfully wallowed, full lips trembling involuntarily. "I never meant to. I swear."

"You only meant to cripple him, I know. But you forget Sherlock that a man once wounded may eventually survive and carry on but a man deserted is a spirit who tends to forget there's something more worth fighting for." Tapping the tip of the umbrella against the floor, Mycroft didn't even bid his brother good day before he was off of the chair and through the door, leaving only a shadow behind in his wake.

Sherlock didn't even protest at his brother's dramatic leave, the data rearranging itself within his mind at a frightening speed until the dots were connected in such a way that distantly Sherlock could not believe that the answer had ever been out of his reach.

Distantly, he knew it had never been about the data at all.

* * *

When John returned, it was with a slight hiss and a bag full of take-away within the hand not clutching his cane, wanting nothing more than a quiet night in with his best friend.

Sherlock stared up at him from his spot on the sofa, grey-blue eyes calculating even as his sprawled limbs told a different story.

 _Calculating_.

"Hello." John uselessly called out from the doorway.

"May I ask you something John?"

Blond lashes fluttered against weathered cheeks. The weary former surgeon knew that particular tone. "Yeah…?"

"Would you mind terribly coming over to me? I wish to see something."

"What?"

"Your hand."

"Why?"

"I wish to examine it."

"For what exactly?"

"Experiment, now will you cease these nonsense questions and come here or shall I have to get up?" Before Sherlock could even make it off the furniture, the tired doctor hobbled his way to his sofa and gave his friend his left hand. Sherlock smirked in victory as he tenderly took in the limb within his own and turned his dissecting eyes on the piece of flesh carefully cradled against his fingers and palm.

It trembled within the investigator's grip, fingers curling defensively as the wrist kept jerking out of the younger man's gentle hold.

"You're afraid." John snatched his appendage out of his friend's hand, the amazement within that smooth baritone too much to process.

"Why would I be afraid of you Sherlock?"

"Not of me, obviously." Not knowing when to stop, that being Sherlock's specialty, kept the detective going even as the once inviting curiosity only repelled the former soldier. "Of intimacy, even the most innocent of it. You do not wish for any sort of touch. That's when your hand started shaking, when I reached out and made a grab for it. You were anticipating something and it was not one of pleasant kind."

"Leave it alone, Sherlock."

Instead of backing off of John's personal space the Consulting Detective invaded it, backing the older man until his back hit the wall and there was nowhere left to run. "Tell me, John. Tell me something other than what it is I know to be true and I will believe you. I will delete everything speaking otherwise and I will follow your words as if they are gospel in this one instance."

"Why?"

"Because you are my friend."

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't have any friends."

"Just the one then." Sherlock gazed intently into John's eyes. "Just you really."

"I can't." John felt his eyes water, hands trembling, voice failing, body sliding, down, the floor, he's reaching the floor-

Dark curls flooded the doctor's vision until they blurred into the inky darkness that John was so familiar with, a faint ringing of words tickling his ears until they seemed so far away, they couldn't have been said.

" _Then neither can I_."

* * *

John's dreams blurred together when he finally woke up, fragments remembered and lost as his deep blue eyes blinked open and the ceiling of his bedroom took up the space the painted images had given up in return for wakefulness.

It didn't feel like he was grounded in reality but John knew by the water stain peeking out of the corner of his eye and the tiny webs of dust collecting overhead that this was not another dream. The muzzy fog had dispersed seconds ago to reveal the shady discourse that made up a majority of the doctor's fractured mental state while wide awake, alluding to a world that was even more chaotic underneath its unassuming surface. An off kilter paradox that John now fit within quite well.

Gangly limbs and frazzled curls blanketed over the entire right side of the former soldier's prone body, the heaviness of his friend's slight frame an afterthought until he was finally noticed. Informative eyes bleak with newfound knowledge stayed closed, even as the breathing pattern pressed against John's rib cage became increasingly more erratic.

The dreams that he remembered began to crinkle at the edges as well, even as John attempted to hold onto them. Closing his eyes didn't prevent the memories from going away but the drowsiness returned in the remembrance's stead until John floated back into the comfort of sleep in hopes of better, nonsensical dreams.

Even as he slept, however, dark, decrepit eyes still lingered as pictures of bruises and broken bones were torched in favor of stifling dark rooms and stretches of pale luminous skin everywhere.

* * *

Sherlock sat next to his doctor's prone figure clustered within the multitude of warm blankets, tiny body curled into itself in a sloppy version of a fetal position. The laugh lines around John's mouth were crinkled in a facsimile of a frown even within sleep, though the detective had long guessed that that was a façade as well.

The breathing pattern was all wrong and the way John's left big toe curled with nervous energy gave him away completely but Sherlock kept his mouth shut for once, preferring to let his thoughts run on autopilot while watching the rugged physician keep pretending he wasn't as conscious as they both knew he was.

In this instance it was near impossible to force his emotions away from the matter at hand, disgusted that they had kept the detective blinded from the truth for so long. Granted it had only been 24 hours but Sherlock was usually able to spot a victim of abuse within minutes, if not seconds depending on bruising patterns, posture, eye contact and sporadic involuntary flinches. It had taken Sherlock nearly a whole day and a lecture from _Mycroft_ of all people to finally see what had been obvious.

His blogger had not even been hiding it, not very well anyway. The aversion to touch, the limp that was now very real, the emotional outbursts that were so very random, it had all been pointing at some type of abuse. But Sherlock attributed almost all of it to the shock of his return, the betrayal that now seemed to burn more vibrantly at the knowledge that it wasn't just emotional violence that Sherlock had inflicted on him by leaving.

Mycroft had stated it plainly; his leaving was the catalyst. Sherlock was sure that John had seen it as a punishment, what had happened to him. In the older man's mind it was irrelevant how the retribution was to be administered; he had let his friend of a year and half, the man who had revitalized him and transformed him from a useless former soldier with a penchant for suicidal thoughts to a soldier of a different kind. A new warzone had been presented to a broken doctor courtesy of the infantile detective everyone knew to be dangerous.

But John loved dangerous. _Craved it_ in a way a junkie needed his next fix.

Sherlock had not anticipated how far John himself would fall along with him.

Mycroft had sarcastically imposed the word 'hero' on his head the first time he had managed to make contact with the elder Holmes. The icy rage cleverly disguised under surreptitious cloves of phrases that had not penetrated through Sherlock's state of mind at the time, not fully realizing how much leaving his friend by his own grave would take out of him; certainly more than he had believed he had had to give.

Months of hiding and planning and obsessing ( _not about John though, how could he even bother to do so after everything that had happened?_ ) had made Sherlock into even more of a hermit than before. Even the assassins that had been tipped off by his small purposeful missteps could not seem to find him.

Sherlock had hoarded the greatest part of himself for the better part of a year and even once the madness had crawled into a steady white lunacy the once thought to be dead man had continued his various planning until it was the only thing he could see. Nothing else existed except bringing down whatever was left of Moriarty's empire and the Why had crumbled into stardust, speckles of nothingness unimportant in the greater scheme of things.

And right at the center of his obsession was Sebastian Moran.

Mycroft's second call had been filled with terse silences and steady reminders.

He had promised the sniper's head on a platter.

Instead of being placated Mycroft had immediately shut his mouth and let Sherlock continue on his merry way.

At the time Sherlock had not found anything suspicious about this.

For eight months after that spectacularly disastrous phone call Sherlock found himself thrust out into the real world once again, laying out triggers and leads so beautifully that even he had to be in awe of his own genius.

Sebastian Moran had fallen for every single ploy.

Each and every trap.

It was glorious.

Slowly Sherlock's name began to chirp up within the dregs of the underground once again, a sort self-induced boogeyman for those who had once had the name Moriarty stamped on their person and now carried the crucible that Moran continued to burden them with. His silent cheer slowly grew into a crowing rush of merriment. There wasn't a moment that Sherlock had not enjoyed the chase. He had played the game so well that it hadn't felt like there was anything missing.

Except there was.

Two years into his forced solitude and Sherlock had had his first crisis.

Obviously not his _first_ first crisis but the first time in two years where Sherlock had not enjoyed the chase or lived off nothing but the thrill of the puzzle and felt… complete.

Coincidentally that was also the day of Mycroft's phone call.

Sherlock's tongue had wanted to form the name 'John' and instead all that could come out was 'London'.

Thinking back on it, the nostalgic scientist wondered if Mycroft had known even then that Sherlock had been confused. He had thought he had been content with what he had, as minimal as it was. But he hadn't. Things were not like before.

He was not like before.

After that, everything became fuzzy. He remembered the mistakes and the pitfalls ( **drugs** ) and the wounds. Everything began slipping and all of the plans that he had so carefully laid out just a year earlier disintegrated in mere weeks.

Three whole years wasted.

One wasted planning, one wasted enacting and one watching everything fall apart.

After striking out as many members as he could in a multitude of kamikaze attacks, Sherlock had slowly come to realize that he was finally coming out of his self-imposed shell and becoming something different. Not exactly the same man that he was prior to The Fall but definitely not all that different from it.

Those last few months, as Moran's army drifted into complete nothingness and Sherlock's world narrowed into one constant scope of destruction, he finally remembered _Why_.

The final phone call occurred the night before Sherlock had decided that travelling to London was his final chance. Mycroft had known even before his little brother that Sherlock would not be able to continue on, not if the rogue investigator wished to keep his sanity intact.

It would be his last chance to catch Moran, his last chance to regain his rightful position among London's lost causes and his last chance at a semi-normal life worth living again.

A life worth living _with John_.

There had been so many close calls and distant thoughts of 'just another centimeter over' that Sherlock had forced himself not to think of the one person who would have taken those moments and made them their own.

Fingers gripped around the handle of a semi-automatic handgun, tightened knuckles bloodless and strong. He still remembered that moment of complete peace with both himself and his decision to return. Mycroft's smug voice hadn't even caused the younger man to second guess himself as it usually would, too sure of this choice to allow his older brother to bother him into thinking otherwise.

In this moment now, _the_ moment if the Consulting Detective were honest with himself, Sherlock finally found himself thinking on John's own moments and decided, 'So Would I'.


End file.
